


Taint of Royalty

by fallingintoimagination, maddierose



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Baratheon Sister, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mother character, Oberyn Martell is a Good Parent, Oberyn Martell's legitimate children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24177850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintoimagination/pseuds/fallingintoimagination, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddierose/pseuds/maddierose
Summary: The King's sister, Medea Baratheon, clashes wills with some of the most deadly powers in the realm in a bid to ensure the safety of her young children. Meanwhile Alaric Martell, Oberyn's only legitimate son, plots to rescue Sansa Stark from the claws of the Lannisters. Yet they both play a dangerous game, one they're just as likely to lose as they are to win.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Original Female Character(s), Sansa Stark/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. The King's New Hand

**Warnings: none**

Medea Baratheon sauntered into the King’s rooms unannounced, something only Robert’s sister could get away with. She knew that her older brother had imposed a self-exile upon himself, hiding away in his rooms since the day Jon Arryn had died. She could not say she blamed him – Robert had been very close with the old man. However, there were things that needed doing, and it fell to Medea to remind the King of his responsibilities.

“What do you want?” Robert growled as his younger sister closed the heavy door behind her.

“To see my eldest brother.” She raised her eyebrows coolly. “I heard about Lord Arryn.”

“What of it?” Robert asked, somewhat suspiciously. His sister was no fool – Medea was very involved in political intrigue, although she did not have as many spies as his wife Cersei. Nonetheless, the young Baratheon woman was shrewd and intelligent. In some ways, she was quite a lot like their brother Stannis, but less…well, dry.

“So, you will be needing a new Hand.” Medea walked over to Robert’s desk, picking up the pitcher and pouring herself some red wine. She often found it bitter, but it did help her think and articulate herself in stressful situations, she found.

“I know who I want for my new Hand.”

“As do I.” Medea spun to face Robert, leaning against the desk and taking a sip from the goblet. “Eddard Stark.”

The man had been Robert’s closest and most trusted friend since their youth. It had been nine years since they had last seen Ned – Medea had been but a girl then, sixteen years old and pregnant with her second child. It had been difficult, that pregnancy, due to the loss of her husband during the Greyjoy rebellion. Clifford Swann had been seven years older than his little wife, but they had come to love each other deeply, and his loss had impacted her greatly.

Fortunately, she had her two children to ease the burden. Valko, her eldest and Clifford’s heir. He had been a wedding night babe, she was almost certain, born soon after she had turned fourteen. Felicia was her youngest, two years younger than Valko and conceived just a few months before the Greyjoy rebellion.

Medea could not complain – she had been well cared for after her husband’s death. Old Gulian Swann was a loyal ally to Robert, which was why his eldest son had married the King’s only sister. He had made sure she was welcome at Stonehelm, but Medea had other plans. She had only been thirteen when she had married, and missed her brothers dearly. So she returned to King’s Landing with her two children, visiting Stonehelm often but remaining with Robert and his household.

“Bring me some,” Robert commanded, shaking Medea from her reverie. He never asked anymore, simply demanded. She supposed that was what happened when you became King, although she had been only a child when he had, so she did not remember much what he was like before that. Stannis had always been stiff and formal. Renly, her baby brother and the closest to her in age, was more playful in nature.

“I didn’t hear the ‘p’ word.”

Robert frowned. “What ‘p’ word, woman?”

“Please.” She sipped her wine. “The one you never use anymore.”

“Bring me the damned wine,” Robert snapped, clearly in no mood for her dry humour. Medea rolled her eyes and poured him some, walking over and shoving the goblet at him.

“When are we going north?”

“So you wish to come?” Her brother asked, seeming surprised. Medea could not blame him – the North had never appealed to her in the past.

“Of course. Valko and Felicia would be thrilled. He has been following you around, hasn’t he?”

“He is growing fast.” Robert sounded quite proud – but that was no surprise to Medea. The boy resembled him more closely than even Robert’s own son, Joffrey.

“Of course. He will be twelve soon enough.”

Robert nodded thoughtfully. “Old enough to learn to fight.”

“He is still a boy,” Medea protested, fiercely protective of her children. She did not want to admit that her little boy was growing up, and that in a few short years, he would be a man. The thought frightened her, that one day Valko and Felicia would not need her anymore.

“You cannot keep him sheltered forever, Medea.” Robert’s voice was stern. “He must learn to fight.”

“He will.” Medea sighed heavily. “He is already learning how to handle a sword. But I don’t want to pit him against others, certainly not Joffrey.”

Joffrey was a good few years older than Valko, and there was no child Medea despised more. He was a horrible bully, and delighted in tormenting others such as his younger brother Tommen. Valko was more resistant to such bullying – he had brawled with Joffrey several times in the past.

“How soon are we leaving?” Medea inquired, focusing her mind on the task at hand. Winterfell would be bitterly cold, but a journey would be welcome. She thought that perhaps the younger of Ned’s daughters was a similar age to Valko, but she brushed the thought away. It was far too soon to be thinking of her son’s own marriage and – seven hells – potential grandchildren. She was twenty-five years old, dammit.

“Few days,” Robert stated, slurring slightly due to the wine. “Prepare yourself.”

* * *

Alaric Martell stretched out in the large bed as he felt the warmth of the sun on his bare chest. He let out a loud yawn as he rolled about, raking a hand through his sleep tousled hair. He cracked open one eye to see that the woman sharing his bed, although he seemed to recall he was sharing her bed, was awake and reading. He grinned up at her as he rolled onto his stomach, staring at her.

“So. Winterfell." It was something he had been wanting to discuss for a few days now, having heard about it around court. Medea nodded, placing her book down. Alaric had been sleeping with her for a few years now, and the two had grown close. Their relationship had never progressed from the bed, but they were dear friends.

"Yes, Robert wants to make Eddard his new Hand."

“I shall accompany you.” He grinned at her as he stifled another yawn.

Medea raised an eyebrow at his statement. "Oh really?"

“I spoke to my father regarding it already.” Alaric informed her. He had a feeling she would be going when he first heard about it, and couldn’t help but sate his curiosity of the North by joining her.

"Won't it be too cold for you?" She teased him, tracing a finger down his chest.

He slung an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. “I’ll have you to warm my bed.”

"Is that so?" She looked down at him, straddling his lap as he rested his hands on his hips.

“But of course. Alysanne will most likely follow as well.” Alaric chuckled. Where he went his twin went. They had always been like that and he wasn’t expecting that to change.

"Robert will probably try and have me marry someone there." Medea let out a heavy sigh as she rolled her eyes. Robert had been trying to get her to remarry for the past few years, but she wasn’t the least bit interested in any of the men he had suggested. She knew she was lucky she had a say at all, after all he could have refused to take her in and left her in Stonehelm, but he didn’t. "I don't want to remarry."

“You will have to eventually." Alaric sat up, reaching over the side of the bed to grab his pants as he began to dress himself and start his day. He glanced at her as she made a disgruntled noise, clearly not pleased with the idea. “Well, should something happen to your brothers..."

"Yes, but I've already done my duty by marrying and having children. I don't see why I'd need to do it again." She argued, shifting so that she was sitting behind him as he began to lace up his boots. "I could marry you."

Alaric glanced over his shoulder at her. “I would love that."

"Yet your father won't allow it." She reminded him. They’d had the discussion previously. It would be a smart match, but Medea had already been married and already had children, which meant Oberyn had not agreed with the idea of his only son and heir wedding an older woman. "Valko has been asking for more lessons, you know."

“I can teach him some more." Alaric smiled, raking a hand through his hair. He had taken it upon himself to help train Valko, and the boy had grown fond of their training sessions.

"He likes you a lot." She informed him, draping her arms over his shoulders.

Alaric chuckled. “I’m a good brother figure."

"It's nice for him to have a man around who doesn't drink heavily and boast about all the tits he's grabbed recently." She sighed, resting her head on Alaric’s shoulder. She did care for her brother, but she didn’t want her son to turn out that way.

* * *

“Stop it, Valko! Leave me alone!”

Nine-year-old Felicia Swann sprinted away from her older brother, hiding under a table. Sometimes, she couldn’t believe how silly he was. He was almost twice her size, and still chased her around the place. She wasn’t _interested_ in being chased. She was interested in trying on pretty dresses and getting her hair done.

“Get out from under the table,” Valko commanded, as if being two years older and a boy meant that she had to listen to him. “It’s unladylike.”

“You chasing me is unmanlylike,” Felicia retorted.

“ _What_ are you two doing?”

Both children stopped what they were doing to see their mother standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Valko sensed that they were about to get into trouble, and immediately pointed an accusing finger at his hiding sibling.

“Felicia won’t get out from under the table.”

Medea raised her eyebrows. “Why were you chasing her?”

“She was pulling my hair.”

“Oh, Valko, don’t be absurd.” Medea rolled her eyes. “Felicia, come out. I have news.”

Felicia crawled out from under the table, suddenly excited. She wondered what their mother had come to tell them. Perhaps there was going to be a celebration and Felicia would have a brand-new dress to wear. Better yet, perhaps her uncle Balon was coming to King’s Landing. She did so enjoy his visits.

“We are accompanying your uncle, his Grace, to Winterfell,” Medea announced.

“The North?” Felicia was somewhat disappointed, wrinkling her nose. “Isn’t it very cold there?”

“I’m not afraid of the cold.” Valko puffed out his chest, making Felicia scoff. Her brother seemed to think he wasn’t afraid of anything.

“Valko, I doubt anyone is afraid of the cold, dear,” Medea responded.

“Some people are,” Valko replied defensively.

“I heard there are direwolves there,” Felicia stated, her eyes widening. She wondered what it would be like to see a real direwolf. The North was a savage and frightening place. That was what Uncle Renly often said.

“That’s not true.” Medea shook her head. “Direwolves are almost extinct.”

Valko looked thrilled. “Do you think we’ll see one?”

“Maybe one will eat you,” Felicia said, hopeful.

Valko drew himself up to full height. “I’d be too fast for it.”

“You wish,” she responded.

“Both of you, behave,” Medea said, making both of them fall silent. “Unless you would rather stay here.”

“Yes, Mother,” Valko said obediently, causing Medea to smile.

“Good boy.”

“I’m excited, Mother,” Felicia admitted. Perhaps there would be someone handsome in the north that she could marry. She was far too young to marry yet, but their mother had only been a few years older than Valko when she had married their father. Felicia hadn’t bled yet, but she would in a few years. She hoped to marry someone as valiant and kind as her father had apparently been, not someone loathsome like her cousin Joffrey.

“How cold will it be?” Valko asked.

“You’ll need extra furs,” Medea stated, glancing between the two of them with raised eyebrows. “Clean yourselves up for dinner.”

“What’s for dinner?” Valko inquired, which didn’t surprise Felicia in the least. He was always thinking about his stomach.

“Whatever the cook makes you,” Medea said, noting Valko’s yawn, “And then bed.”

* * *

Alysanne Martell tugged her brother back into the chair as he moved around impatiently, attempting to get up. She tugged on his hair as she attacked it with the scissors, attempting to neaten the mess it had become over the past few weeks they had been venturing North. She had reluctantly accompanied her twin when he’d declared that he was heading to Winterfell. They had been inseparable since childhood, the only legitimate children of Oberyn Martell and his wife – a marriage that had not lasted very long at all.

“It’s getting too long again."

"It's fine." Alaric groaned, wincing as she tugged on his hair. "If you cut it too short, Medea can't pull it."

“I don’t care if she can pull it or not.” Alysanne snapped at him, putting the scissors down as she finished with his hair. There were some things she didn’t need to hear, and what Alaric did with his lover was certainly one of them.

"But I do." He scowled, jumping and rubbing the back of his head as he felt her slap it hard. He glared at her as she walked past, washing her hands. "Ouch!"

“Child." She rolled her eyes, pouring herself a glass of water before glancing out of the window. She wanted nothing more than to return home, but she was to stay with Alaric at Oberyn’s request to make sure he behaved. Unfortunately, Alaric was certainly his father’s son.

"I am not." He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. They were both twenty years old and so he despised the insinuation that he was anything but a grown man. Alysanne rolled her eyes, sipping her drink as she stared out through the tent flap to the plains beyond. Neither of the twins had ever been this far north before, and she felt a slight sense of excitement.

“Winterfell will be interesting."

"And cold." Alaric reminded her. He wasn’t looking forward to the cold. Dorne was warm even in comparison to King’s Landing, and Winterfell was far colder than both. However, as Oberyn had been all too keen to travel the Free Cities in his youth, so the twins were eager to explore more of Westeros.

“I am sure we will survive." She laughed, walking over to him and ruffling his hair.

Alaric flicked his hair dramatically out of his eyes, winking at her. "I'd hope so. I'm far too pretty to die there."

* * *

Medea strode into the royal tent, unsurprised to find Robert drinking heavily – one of the few habits that he and Cersei shared. She had the feeling that she knew what this discussion was going to be about, and she was not looking forward to it. She sat down across from her older brother, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“We need to talk about you remarrying.” Robert set his cup down with a loud clang. “I am going to speak to Ned about you marrying Robb.”

Medea got to her feet almost as quickly as she’d sat down. “The boy is seventeen.”

“It would be a decent match,” Robert insisted as Medea paced back and forth. She knew there was a reason her brother had summoned her, and she was proven right. Medea was immediately disapproving, aware of the fact that Robb was a good eight years younger than her.

“He is a child,” she said dismissively.

“It would join our families,” Robert said, although Medea did not honestly think the match would be a welcome one to the Starks.

“Ned would not want his eldest son to marry a woman who has already had a son by another man.”

“It is worth trying.” Robert crossed his arms over his chest. “You need to marry.”

They had had this discussion several times over the past few years. Robert had allowed Medea a time to grieve for the loss of her husband, but soon after she had turned eighteen, he had started suggesting potential new husbands for her – none of which had impressed her in the slightest.

“No, I don’t. I have two children.” Medea planted her hands on her hips. “Robb would not have me.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Robert asked, his voice growing louder and his eyes narrowing.

Medea threw up her arms. “Not try and use me as a bargaining chip, Robert.”

“What other use are you to me?” Robert asked, making her frown. She had obediently married Clifford Swann without question when she had been thirteen, and produced two children for him in the three years of their marriage. She did not like Robert’s implication that her only use was to bear more children.

“Don’t you speak to me like that,” she snapped. “I’m not an object.”

Robert stared her down. “You refuse to marry.”

Medea lifted her chin. “My son will be lord of Stonehelm one day. I am not breeding stock. I am a princess.”

“Which is why I will find you another husband,” Robert stated, causing his younger sister to roll her eyes. She did not see why it was so important, considering the fact she had done what any woman was meant to and produced a son and heir for her late husband.

“Robert, surely there must be someone you’re considering who is closer to my age,” Medea pleaded, although she knew he had gone through many suggestions of men close to her age. She had already rejected men such as Edmure Tully. “Seven hells, the boy is green as grass.”

“I will hear no more of this,” Robert grumbled, and she knew that the discussion was at an end for now. Medea scowled and stormed out, praying to the Seven that Ned would see sense and reject this match.

* * *

“Stop pacing." Alaric ordered Medea through a mouthful of bread. He had been watching her pace back and forth for what felt like hours and it was starting to annoy him. He understood that she was not pleased about her latest conversation with her eldest brother, but he’d rather hoped she’d just eat in peace with him.

"Robert wants me to marry Ned's eldest son. I knew something like this would happen." Medea sighed heavily, sitting down beside him. Alaric rolled his eyes. The idea of her remarrying wasn’t a new one, and he was beginning to grow tired of her constant complaining about it. It was no secret that Robert was seeking a new match for his only sister.

“He has been wanting you to remarry for a while.”

“I know. But to a boy of seventeen?" She threw her hands up in the air, apparently finding it almost unbelievable that Robert wanted to marry her off to someone so young. Alaric knew that sometimes she even teased about the five-year age difference between the two of them.

“You are still young and able to have children." He reminded her, knowing that was the main reason that Robert was trying so hard. Medea rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair and sipping at her wine.

"Oh, trust me. I know."

“Sit down and relax." Alaric ordered, picking away at his food still.

Medea smirked at him, downing the rest of her wine. "You can help with that."

“Now? I’m eating.” He gestured to the plate in front of him. “I like to enjoy my food."

"I could give you something else to enjoy." She grinned at him suggestively, sighing dramatically when he shook his head at her, continuing to pick away at his food. "Perhaps Robert should have suggested Felicia. It's the same fucking age difference."

“Medea. It could be worse." Alaric argued with her, pushing his plate away from himself. “It could be some old man."

She glanced at him as she poured her more wine, grabbing a glass for himself. "Thank you."

“Wine makes everything better." He winked at her, sipping at his glass. He would try and cheer her up like always, but he didn’t know how easy that was going to be.

"Most things." She murmured in reply before sipping at the dry liquid.

* * *

"Alaric!" Valko exclaimed as he noticed Alaric strolling through the camp. He had been looking for him all morning, keen to throw some spears. Alaric glanced over his shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow at the boy’s enthusiasm.

"Valko." 

"Can we throw spears?" Valko questioned as he fell into step beside Alaric. The Dornishman nodded, he had nothing better to do as he refused to get involved in the politics of the capital.

"Alright." 

"I want a full sized one." Valko announced as they began to head towards the guards’ tent, who’d likely have some weapons to spare. He was always excited to spend time with Alaric, especially as many of the people in King’s Landing were either younger or older than him and seemed to have no time to entertain him.

"I do not think you would be strong enough." Alaric told him as they reached the tent, pausing outside for a moment. Valko frowned as he turned to face him. He was ready for a full sized one in his opinion, however in Alaric’s, the kid always took on more than he could handle.

"I'm almost a man grown, I'm eleven!"

Alaric shook his head, chuckling. "I could not lift one at your age."

Valko sighed heavily, recognising that he had lost the argument. It took him only a moment before his excitement was back and he was bounding into the tent. He and Alaric grabbed their weapons, with a curt nod from one of the men inside, before heading outside.

Valko concentrated on his stance before hurling one of the spears at the target. Alaric watched him as he set about hurling the other couple of spears at the other targets before walking over and collecting them. Alaric moved behind him, correcting his grip as he moved to throw another. As he stepped back, Valko let the spear go, hitting just off centre of the target.

"Good." 

“I’m getting better.” Valko beamed up at him, his grin wide enough to split his face in two.

“You certainly are.’ Alaric smiled, ruffling his hair before glancing around. He had expected Medea to be roaming about like she always was, ensuring her children were kept in check. "Where's your mother?" 

"Talking with Uncle Robert." Valko answered, frowning at the question. "Why? Are you gonna marry her?"

Alaric shook his head. Robert and Oberyn would never have allowed such a marriage, and both he and Medea were aware of it. It didn’t bother them as they both enjoyed each other’s sexual company.

"No. We are friends." 

"Why not?" Valko clearly thought them to be a good match. "Friends can marry. Mother says I might in a few years."

"You will." Alaric assured him, knowing that in Valko’s position he very much needed to marry.

"I don't even _like_ girls that much." Valko groaned, a scowl forming on his face. He hated the idea of getting married, but Alaric knew his mind would change on the matter in time.


	2. Winterhell

**Warnings: none**

Alaric leant back in his chair as he continued to down the wine in his hand. He needed it to pluck up the courage to do what his father had asked of him. He felt uncomfortable having to capture the attention of such a young woman, but he knew it was his duty. Aly had of course teased him for hours. Oberyn would never ask his darling legitimate daughter to do anything she didn’t wish. Alaric sighed heavily as he pushed aside his whining thoughts, getting to his feet and heading over towards Sansa.

He winked at her as she caught his gaze, her cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he came to stand in front of her. “Hello.”

Sansa looked over him, there was no mistaking his colouring for that of someone from Dorne. He had sun kissed skin and tousled hair that reached his shoulders. She would be lying if she didn’t think he was handsome. "Alaric Martell?"

“Correct. Have you heard of me?” He grinned at her, taking another sip of his wine.

Sansa nodded. "I have, a little."

“Do share.” Alaric was curious to see what others said about him, and was hoping it was somewhat interesting.

Sansa thought on it for a moment before answering, "Well, you're Oberyn's only son."

“Is that all? That’s rather insulting. I thought at least my skills in making a fool of myself would have been heard of.” He sighed dramatically, raking a hand through his hair.

"Unfortunately not." Sansa giggled at his dramatics, finding him to be rather amusing. "What else have I not heard?"

“I am very attractive, and good with a sword.” He told her, puffing out his chest slightly. He felt uncomfortable having to work so hard to keep her attention, but he knew he had to.

"So is my brother Robb." She pointed out to him, glancing over at her eldest sibling.

“I shall have to prove I am better than him.' Alaric grinned at her, glancing over at Robb and sizing him up. He could beat the wolf pup, if he tried hard enough. He continued to look through the crowd, frowning when he noticed the absence of his twin. “My sister seems to have disappeared."

Sansa looked around as he had, indeed noting the other Martell’s absence. "Are you worried about her?"

“She can defend herself.” Alaric chuckled, having been on the end of her wrath many a time. She had learnt to fight, just as he had. He looked back to Sansa, noting the flush in her cheeks. “Do I make you nervous?"

"No. I'm just not used to the attention." She admitted, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear.

Alaric raised an eyebrow, sipping his wine. “I thought you would have been. You are rather beautiful.”

"That is very kind of you to say." She smiled, watching as he kissed her hand after glancing over at Medea and noticing her state of annoyance.

He offered her a charming smile, placing his goblet on the table. “I must go rescue my dear friend from Theon. Please excuse me, Lady Sansa.”

* * *

If there was something that Medea could enjoy in the frigid cold of Winterfell, it was certainly a feast. She kept herself warm with copious amounts of wine – and she could now feel it getting to her, that familiar feeling of fuzziness that came with having indulged in a little too much of the beverage. She almost collided with a young man with curly dark hair, who she recognised from the tedious introductions earlier in the day to be Ned Stark’s eldest son.

“Robb, isn’t it?” So this was the boy her brother wanted her to marry. He was undoubtedly good-looking, although he was only seventeen years old. Perhaps taking Alaric Martell to her bed had sent the message she liked younger men. Robb Stark was too young for her liking – and besides, she liked older men too.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Lady Medea?”

She smiled sweetly. “That’s right.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Robb stated. She couldn’t help but think that this boy was certainly Ned’s son – polite manners, a charming smile and far too much damn honour. Medea far preferred her men with a little more spirit.

“You too. You were very small when I last saw you, I think around eight.”

Robb grinned. “That was a long while ago.”

“It was.” She examined him. Perhaps she had no intention of taking this green boy to her bed, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t flirt. “You’ve grown into quite the handsome young man.”

Robb laughed. “You are quite attractive yourself.”

“Why thank you.” Medea tossed her dark curls back. Flattery was not entirely new to her. There were many men, particularly in the capital, who sought to shower her with gifts and praise to win her favour – a transparent attempt to get close to Robert. However, coming from Robb, the words seemed genuine. “I do like to think I have inherited the Baratheon looks.”

“You have indeed,” Robb said.

“Valko!” Medea exclaimed, having noticed where her son was. The boy paused while sculling from a cup of wine, before putting it down and running off. She knew that she would have trouble finding the little shit. The woes of being a mother. She heaved a sigh and turned her attention back on Robb. “Excuse me, I should go and collect my wayward son.”

The hall was so crowded that it was difficult for the young woman to weave her way through it. Although the atmosphere was light and joyful, Medea was all too aware of the last time they’d seen the Starks. She had recently lost her husband. For her, the occasion brought back that painful reminder. It had been nine years since she’d lost Clifford and although the sharp agony had dulled into an ache, every now and then it was like an old wound that would still hurt her.

“Medea.” It was Ned Stark, looking far less intoxicated than most of the other men in his hall.

“Lord Stark.” She smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. I was little more than a child when we last spoke.”

“And pregnant,” Ned reminded her, casting around as if hoping to see her son and daughter nearby. “Are you and your children well?”

“They are.” Medea nodded. “Valko would have been a baby back then, now he causes mischief. But Felicia is well behaved.”

“That is good to hear.” Ned smiled as well, and Medea wondered if he still saw the heartbroken teenage widow when he looked at her. It had been a very dark time for Medea back then, and she hadn’t been pregnant and had baby Valko…things might have taken a very different turn. As always, she was thankful for her children, despite how troublesome they might sometimes be.

“Have a good night, Ned,” Medea said, brushing past him in the hopes of finding Valko at the drinks table helping himself to some more ale. Instead there was a dark-haired young man that she only vaguely recognised. His pale eyes raked approvingly over her body, making her raise her eyebrows.

“Medea, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Who are you?”

“Theon Greyjoy,” he announced proudly. So this must be the youngest Greyjoy boy, who the Starks had taken as a ward. He was a few years older than Robb, and clearly interested in getting to know Medea quite intimately. “You’re as beautiful as they say you are.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Who says that?”

Theon shrugged. “Most people.”

“I see.” More false compliments. Medea found that she grew quite tired of them. Theon’s lecherous gaze was just irritating her. Although of course rumours about her affairs did spread through the capital, she doubted anyone in Winterfell had heard them. “Can I help you, Theon?”

“You could join me in my bed,” he suggested bluntly.

Medea shook her head. “Unfortunately, I must decline your offer.”

Before Theon could say anything, someone grabbed Medea’s arm and steered her away from him. She was none too surprised to see that it was Alaric and her tense shoulders slumped. Although Theon was no doubt harmless, she didn’t appreciate being so openly stared at. At least Alaric had the good grace to confine his filthy comments and lustful looks to the bedroom.

“Seven hells, thank you.”

He winked. “You’re welcome.”

“I saw you flirting with Sansa,” she informed him, remembering how much the eldest Stark girl had been blushing. “A little young for you, isn’t she?”

Alaric sighed. “Father asked me to.”

“To seduce her?” Medea questioned, surprised. She couldn’t see Oberyn instructing his eldest son and heir to bed a girl of thirteen. Although there had been the same age difference between Medea and Clifford as between Alaric and Sansa, only now did she realise just how young thirteen truly was.

“Seven hells, no.” Alaric pulled a face. “To get her attention.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard.” She nudged him playfully in the side. “I take it that means you aren’t warming my bed tonight.”

Alaric’s dark eyes gleamed. “I can.”

Medea couldn’t help but smirk. “I’d like that.”

* * *

Alysanne sipped her cup of wine as she watched Ned’s bastard, Jon she believed his name to be, hack at a dummy with his sword. He was strong, that she could tell from the way it caved under the constant blows. She moved closer towards him, pushing her dark hair from her face. “Is it dead?”

Jon glanced over at her as she spoke, slightly startled at her presence. She sipped her wine as he examined her, although no recognition flashed through his gaze. "Who are you?"

“Alysanne Martell.” She introduced herself. “You’re Jon, correct?”

Jon nodded, lowering his sword and getting himself some water. "The bastard, correct."

“Is that meant to mean something?" Aly frowned at the comment, although the customs surrounding children out of wedlock seemed more barbaric where she was currently than how they were in Dorne.

"It does to most." Jon shrugged, watching as she sat down on one of the low walls, pushing the snow out of her way as she did so.

“All of my siblings are bastards, except for my twin obviously.” Aly finished her wine, placing the goblet down beside her. She didn’t believe that someone’s title or parentage was a reflection of their character.

Jon nodded, turning to face her. "What brings you to Winterfell?"

“Curiosity mainly.” She smiled, tugging her coat tighter around herself

Jon observed her for a moment before walking over and taking a seat beside her. "You find it cold."

“I am from Dorne.” She laughed. It was far warmer where she was from than what it was here. She didn’t much enjoy the cold, but she was adjusting to it. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

"Well, it's warmer inside the hall." He reminded her, although he assumed she had left for a decent reason if she was braving the cold.

“I am not a fan of the people there." She stated with a small shrug, tugging her coat tighter around herself. It wasn’t that she had a particular dislike to anyone in particular, she just found the people around her to be rather cold and unwelcoming compared to her own kin. “You’re not used to people talking to you, are you?"

"Mainly just my siblings." He told her. Not many people were keen on talking to a bastard, even if their parents were of nobility. They were still the outcasts of society.

“Ah." Aly had noted that bastards were treated differently in comparison to where she was from. She did not see why such a prejudice had developed. They were still people, and they had their place. “What do you plan to do with your life?"

Jon rested his sword against his leg, looking down as the moonlight gleamed off of the blade. "I plan to join the Night's Watch. To have a purpose. To defend the realm. There isn't much for me here."

“Life is what you make it." Aly rose to her feet, dusting the snow from her dress as she stretched out happily. Her joints were cold and stiff, making her long for the warmth of Dorne. She did like Winterfell, but she also had no desire to adjust to the cold. They weren’t going to be staying much longer, so it wasn’t needed.

* * *

Medea wrapped her cloak more tightly around her, her breath fanning out before in a fine mist. Winterfell was so fucking  _ cold _ . Fortunately, Alaric was doing a marvellous job of keeping her warm most nights. Medea felt as though she spent most of her time searching the castle for her son. Felicia had taken well to this frozen hell, embarking on sewing lessons with the girls. Valko was, as always, a restless spirit. Medea despaired of him on many occasions.

She was so wrapped in her thoughts that she almost collided with something solid – golden armour gleaming in the pale sunlight. Medea stepped back to see the hair of the man before her was just as golden. Of course, just one of the people she didn’t want to see. Jaime Lannister, smug as ever.

“Medea. Lost your child again?”

“Kingslayer.” Her eyes narrowed. “He tends to wander off.”

Jaime arched an eyebrow. “That, or you’re a terrible mother.”

“I’d prefer him wandering around than locked up in his room.” Medea had always sought to give her children freedom. It was true that Valko often took advantage of that, but she would never cage them. “It hardly makes me a terrible mother. If you’d like a good example, perhaps look to your sister.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched, as it always did if she insulted Cersei. There was no love lost between the two women. Medea despised the way Cersei allowed Joffrey to torment other children, and Cersei hated Medea because she had the sort of freedom that Cersei herself didn’t.

“I heard you are to marry.”

Medea scoffed. “Oh, that won’t happen.”

“Well, you may want to be careful with spreading your legs so easily if you ever wish to marry again,” Jaime drawled. He had always been contemptuous regarding her sexual encounters with men. She remembered being seventeen and having sex with a young lord in a quiet corridor in the middle of Robert’s name-day feast. Jaime had come across them and the confrontation had ended in an argument between the Kingsguard and the teenage Princess.

“Why is that?” Medea asked.

“No man wants used goods,” Jaime said bluntly. Instead of being insulted, Medea tossed back her dark hair and laughed.

“Some men like women with experience. You wouldn’t know as you have little enough of your own. Do you speak to the King so disrespectfully? After all, he’s always with a whore.”

“I don’t need to show you the respect I show the King,” Jaime stated. It was the sort of sexism that Medea had come to expect – no one cared if Robert was sleeping with whores, but the moment she flirted with a man, she was seen as a slut.

Medea folded her arms over her chest. “Yes, you do. I’m the Princess.”

“I suggest you find your son.” Jaime’s expression was as contemptuous as his tone, making Medea’s blue eyes narrow.

“I suggest you learn respect, Kingslayer.”

“I have no respect for whores,” Jaime derided her. Medea’s temper flared and she struck him across the face. She immediately knew that she shouldn’t have, however Jaime barely flinched and he merely laughed at her. It only served to make her even more angry.

“I am not whore,” she hissed, “If I were, I’d ask for payment. Instead I have discreet affairs with noble men.”

Jaime scoffed. “There is nothing noble about Alaric Martell.”

“He is Oberyn’s only legitimate son,” Medea reminded him. Oberyn had a multitude of bastard daughters, commonly known as the Sand Snakes, but Alaric was the only male offspring to have been born to him.

“Just because he is noble in title does not mean he is a noble man,” Jaime said slowly, as if he was speaking to a small child. The tension was broken by quick, light footsteps. Medea glanced over her shoulder to see her son bounding towards them, grinning and covered in mud. She could never fathom exactly how he got so filthy.

“Valko,” Jaime said coolly.

“Kingslayer,” Valko returned, a phrase he had evidently picked up from his mother.

The blonde man raised an eyebrow. “How rude.”

Valko responded by poking his tongue out and rudely blowing a raspberry, causing his mother to cuff him around the back of the head. She would not tolerate such disrespectful behaviour, not even in front of a man she disliked.

“Valko!”

“Just like his mother, it seems,” Jaime remarked.

The boy’s blue eyes, so like his mother’s, narrowed. “Don’t insult my mother, you yellow-haired shit.”

“And his uncle.”

“Valko, that is enough of that language,” Medea scolded, glaring down at her son. “Go and clean yourself up, now.”

With one last irritable look at Jaime, Medea firmly seized a hold of Valko’s arm and marched him off. She knew her bad temper was because of Jaime and his snide comments, and she had no intention of taking that mood out on her son. However, it was true that Valko was in need of a good bath – and to learn when to mind his tongue.

* * *

Medea tapped lightly on the door to Bran’s room, peering in and entering tentatively. She had been shocked when she had heard the boy had fallen while climbing a tower. Maester Luwin was not sure if he would recover, but if he did, he’d have permanently lost the use of his legs. It was a crushing blow to the Stark family, particularly as Ned had already agreed to accompany Robert to the capital and become his Hand. What was to happen now?

Catelyn sat by Bran’s bedside, as the Bran’s direwolf. It was a strange creature and Medea found herself wary of it. Valko had always wanted a pet pup, but these were far larger than any wolves Medea had seen before – and they were still only young. Catelyn had not left Bran’s side since the incident, not that Medea could blame her. She too was a mother, and could understand that Catelyn was feeling a great deal of pain over her son’s situation. She crossed over and gently placed a hand on the older woman’s shoulder.

“I am so sorry.”

“I am blessed he is alive, for now.” Catelyn’s voice was hoarse and combined with puffy redness of her eyes, it was clear she’d recently been crying. Medea’s heart swelled with pity for her.

“My Valko is close to his age.” Medea turned her gaze on the boy in the bed. “I can’t even imagine how I’d feel.”

“I pray to the gods he survives this,” Catelyn murmured.

“As do I.” Medea squeezed her shoulder lightly. “He is strong. I remember when I last saw you. I was pregnant with Felicia, and Bran was just a little baby.”

“How are your children?” Catelyn inquired.

Medea allowed herself a proud smile. “They are doing well. Valko is at a troublesome age, but Felicia is a perfect young lady like your Sansa.”

Catelyn offered a strained smile. “That’s good.”

“It is.” Medea paused. “I’ll watch over your girls in the capital. I am a mother too, after all. If you ever want to get some air, I’m happy to watch Bran.”

“Thank you, but my place is here.” Both women turned to glance at Bran. Medea could tell that Catelyn was in grief over what had happened, and felt it was best to leave her in peace. She could try and give words of comfort, but they were likely empty to Lady Stark, whose thoughts lay only with Bran.

“I’ll leave you with him.”

* * *

“Lady Sansa." Alaric greeted the eldest of Ned Stark’s daughters. He had been meaning to find her, and wasn’t surprised to find her sitting outside on one of the balconies, distracting herself with her sewing.

"Alaric." Sansa smiled at him, it was only a small smile, but a smile none the less. "How are you?"

“I am better than you are.” He knew she would be upset over what had happened to her brother. He was an older sibling himself, and it came with a sense of need to protect your family. “I am sorry about your brother.’

Sansa nodded, glancing back down at the sewing in her hands. "I hope he recovers."

“As do I.” Alaric sat down beside her, taking one of her hands in his own as she fidgeted. He squeezed gently in a comforting manner, earning him another small smile. “He will be alright.”

"I hope so. I've prayed as often as I can." She sighed heavily. Alaric knew she felt helpless, he would as well if he was in her position.

He kissed her cheek gently, smiling at her as she stared up at him. “I will pray tonight for you as well.’

"You are very kind." She commented, prompting his smile to grow more. He hadn’t often been told he was kind, but he enjoyed it. "How is your sister?"

“Which one? I have many.” He grinned at her, knowing she wanted to change the subject to something more light hearted than her being upset about Bran.

"Alysanne, of course." Sansa shook her head. She had grown fond of his twin sister, finding her to be easy to speak to.

“She is well. The cold somewhat agrees with her. More so than it does with me.” He chuckled, having noticed how his sister easily fit into the climate.

"You like the heat better." Sansa laughed, having only just noticed the amount of layers he was wearing to combat the cold. "Well, I suppose I'll experience it in King's Landing."

Alaric raised an eyebrow, he wasn’t overly surprised that she was going to be going with them down south. “You are joining us?”

"My sister Arya and I, yes. As my father has agreed to be Robert's Hand." She explained to him, pulling her hand from his as she went back to her sewing.


	3. The Long Road

**Warnings: none**

“I hope Medea does marry that Stark boy.”

Cersei’s tone was venomous as Jaime watched her pace the room. He lounged in a chair as his twin sister sipped at her wine – she was almost as bad as Robert when it came to drinking these days, not that he’d ever tell her that. Her ire had turned towards Robert’s younger sister, something that seemed more common these days. Jaime did not understand it, however knew Cersei was not fond of any of Robert’s siblings.

“Why is that?”

“So she can stay in Winterfell.” Cersei glanced at him, turning her wine glass in her fingers. “She is troublesome.”

Jaime arched an eyebrow. There were many words he would use for Medea Baratheon, but ‘troublesome’ was not one of them. The woman was as blunt and abrasive as her older brother was capable of being, however most of her time was occupied arguing with Robert and minding her children.

“All she does is fuck the Martell boy and chase after her son. That is hardly troublesome.”

“She constantly complains to Robert.” Cersei stared out of the window into the darkness beyond. She rubbed her arms, no doubt to ward off the frigid cold of the North. “I remember when she came back to court at sixteen, whinging about not feeling safe at Stonehelm. She is dramatic.”

Jaime remembered too, although it had been nearly a decade ago. Apparently, only weeks after Felicia’s birth, Medea had gotten into an argument with her husband’s younger brother. Donnel, not Balon – Balon was of an age with the Princess and they were on very agreeable terms. The fight with Donnel had been bad enough that Medea and her two young children had ended up in King’s Landing. Jaime didn’t quite know what had happened, and had never cared enough to ask.

“Not to mention Robert acts like she could attract any man in Westeros,” Cersei continued bitterly. “She’s a passable marriage prospect, that’s all.”

It was true that Robert had searched the realm for a husband worthy of his precious sister. Medea had stubbornly rejected them all, and her constant sexual dalliances drove Robert mad. The Princess might be picky with those she chose to spread her legs for, but that didn’t mean Robert approved of her fucking Oberyn Martell’s only son – the latest in a fairly long line of conquests.

“I am sure she will marry and leave soon enough.”

Cersei tilted her head to the side. “Do you find her pretty, Jaime?”

He rolled his eyes. Medea was widely considered to be beautiful, and Jaime could certainly see why. She had inherited the Baratheon black hair and blue-grey eyes, pale skin with freckles and full lips. She had a small build with pleasing curves – generous breasts and child-bearing hips, were among the more polite terms in which Jaime had heard men discuss the Princess.

“She is a pretty woman. Would you have me lie?”

Cersei’s lip curled. “No, I am just curious as to what you make of her.”

“I am indifferent.” The only woman who consistently occupied Jaime’s thoughts was right in front of him. “I still do not understand your dislike of her.”

“She thinks herself so high and mighty because she is Robert’s sister.” Cersei and Medea had clashed on several occasions. The girl had arrived in King’s Landing expecting her good-sister to be her friend, but was quickly and firmly corrected. “Besides, should she not be in Stonehelm? If anything was to happen to Gulian, Valko would be its lord.”

“Robert wants her in King’s Landing.”

Cersei scoffed. “To attract another husband, no doubt. It’s been nine years, and he’s had no luck.”

“She will marry soon enough.” The words were an attempt to placate Cersei, who refilled her glass of wine.

“I would hope so.”

* * *

Alysanne pulled her cloak tighter around herself as she felt the slight breeze pick up. She was trying to enjoy the North, but she was quickly learning that she definitely did not like the bitter cold. She pushed her hair out of her face as she looked around, rubbing her hands against her arms in an attempt to generate heat as she wandered over to Jon. She had been looking for the Stark bastard since she had heard about his brother falling from the window, and she was not surprised to see him sitting outside alone, cleaning his sword.

Aly laid her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently in a comforting manner. She didn’t want to intrude on his personal space, but she also didn’t want to leave him alone. “I’m sorry about your brother."

"I hope he recovers. I haven't visited him much." Jon told her, setting his sword down and looking up at her.

Aly smiled slightly as she sat down beside him, resting her hand over his, noting how warm he was in comparison to her. “He seems strong.”

"He is." Jon agreed, nodding his head and letting out a heavy sigh. "Lady Stark won't permit me inside Bran's room."

“She left earlier this morning. Perhaps you could visit now." Aly suggested, tracing circles on the back of his hand. She knew that Alaric was keeping an eye on Sansa, which she supposed was part of his elaborate plan to annoy the Prince. “You Starks are hard to kill, so I have heard. I am sure he will live.”

"I hear you are headed south soon." Aly nodded in answered, having figured that he would’ve heard it from Sansa or Arya no doubt. "Back to Dorne, or King's Landing?"

“I am yet to decide." She knew that Alaric would be staying in King’s Landing, but she had come to miss her father and home. “What of yourself? The Wall, still?”

"The Wall always needs more good men." Jon replied, confirming that his decision to go North was still the same.

* * *

Preparations to depart Winterfell were well underway when Robert summoned his younger sister to his room. The King had said nothing of a potential betrothal to Robb Stark, leaving Medea under the happy impression that nothing had come of that idea. She was looking forward to returning to King’s Landing, although she wondered why Robert had summoned her so close to their departure. She closed the door behind her and strode over to where Robert sat with a drink in hand.

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the chair at the other side of the table. Medea obeyed the command. It was true that she had had a good time in Winterfell, despite the tragedy that had befallen Bran. The Stark boy was still clinging to life, and therefore only Ned and his two daughters would be accompanying the royal party back to the capital.

“Well, are you pleased?” Robert demanded, and Medea knew he was referring to the lack of a marriage arrangement between herself and Ned’s eldest son. She tried not to look too smug about it.

“Of course I am.”

“I will find you another husband,” he assured her.

Medea frowned. “I don’t want one.”

“You will marry again, whether you want it or not.” Robert brow furrowed, in that way it did when someone questioned his authority. Medea could still vaguely remember a time before her brother had become King of Westeros, but she had been too young to question him then.

“Why are you so intent on this?” Medea demanded, folding her arms over her chest. “I married at thirteen when you asked, without question despite how young I was. I have done my duty, I have had a son.”

“You will marry and have more children.” Robert was becoming more irritated by her defiance, judging by the growing volume of his voice and the redness of his cheeks. “I will not be argued with!”

Medea raised her eyebrows. “Technically, you  _ are _ being argued with…”

“You will choose a husband or I will choose one for you.”

“So I can be taken away from my children?” The thought terrified Medea. She had practically raised Valko and Felicia on her own, and the idea that she might be separated from them was a large part of her refusal to remarry.

Robert rolled his eyes. “Your children will not be taken from you.”

“You don’t know that.” Medea shook her head vigorously. “If my new husband wants them out of his sight, they would be.”

Robert slammed his fist down on the table. “You will fucking marry again!”

“Careful, Robert.” Medea’s eyes narrowed, her temper beginning to rise to match his. “I could ruin any chances of marriage.”

Robert did not like the softly-spoke threat. “Then I will send you back to your dead husband’s family.”

“You’d send me elsewhere if I, say, became pregnant with Alaric’s bastard.” She lifted her chin, a smirk curving the corners of her lips. She had always been careful with her lovers, careful that she never carried their child. Yet if Robert was insistent on pushing an unwanted marriage, Medea could always take matters into her own hands. In Dorne, bastard children were not treated any differently than their legitimate kin.

“I would have you rid of the child and sent away, and he would return to Dorne,” Robert growled, fat fingers tightening around his goblet.

“You are not sending me back to Stonehelm,” Medea insisted. She had left for a reason – left because of Donnel. She had no intention of returning, even if things had potentially changed over the years.

“Then you will marry within the year.”

In a fit of temper, Medea batted his goblet of wine off the table, the chair scraping noisily as she pushed it back. She marched out of the King’s room, not caring how it looked to anyone else. Robert would not force her into another marriage. She had been wed to Robert’s ally to maintain peace, and she dreaded the day where turbulence would make Robert push another husband at her.

* * *

Alaric wasn’t quite sure of the direction his conversation with Sansa was leading, in fact he had tuned half of it out, but she was excitedly talking about something as they wandered through the trees. He spotted a purple flower as they strode past a rather sunny clearing, walking over and picking it for her. He could see the irritation on Joffrey’s face already, and it was beginning to amuse him.

"Thank you." Sansa blushed slightly as he handed it to her, examining it in her hand.

Alaric grinned before placing a light kiss to the back of her hand. “It is almost as beautiful as you.”

"You are too kind." She smiled at him, glancing at Joffrey as he shifted beside them.

Joffrey moved over to Alaric, sizing him up as he attempted to seem menacing towards the other man.

"I would thank you to stop flirting with my betrothed."

“There is a difference between niceties and flirting. Although, I doubt you would know it." Alaric retorted, offering the Prince a tight smile.

Joffrey frowned at him, not enjoying how he was being spoken to by Alaric. "Don't be so rude."

“Perhaps you should take your own advice.” Alaric offered, arching his eyebrow at the other man.

"Hold your tongue, Martell." Joffrey all but snarled at him, his temper beginning to flare up as Alaric continued to bait him.

“I don’t answer to you, Baratheon.” Alaric snapped back, which was the final straw for Joffrey as he swung at Alaric, punching him in the jaw. Sansa stared at the scene in shock, putting a hand over her mouth.

"Joffrey!"

“You strike like a little girl.” Alaric laughed, reaching up to wipe the small amount of blood from his lip as Joffrey stalked off, clearly insulted at his words. Sansa pulled his hand from his face, examining his lip as Alaric watched Joffrey head back towards the camp.

"Are you alright?"

“My sisters have beaten me harder than he ever could.” Alaric grinned down at her. His sisters had broken bones before. Joffrey’s hit barely caused him pain. He was more concerned about how Sansa was feeling after the display. “Are you alright?”

"I'm fine." She assured him, but Alaric could tell that she was still uneasy, not that he blamed her. Joffrey was a volatile person, and she was going to be tied to him by marriage. The thought made Alaric angry, not that he could do anything to change how the Prince acted. No matter how much he wanted to beat a lesson into him on how to be nice to a lady, it would certainly not be viewed in a positive light. He could only hope that the Prince’s foul temper did not land on Sansa.

* * *

Medea marched into Robert’s room unannounced, utterly incensed with how the night had gone. As they had travelled south, tensions had risen between Joffrey and Arya – culminating in some sort of fight where the girl’s wolf had bitten Joffrey. Cersei had insisted that there be some kind of punishment, and to settle the matter, Robert had agreed to kill the direwolf. Only, since Arya’s direwolf had fled, it had been Sansa’s direwolf to die instead.

“You let the wolf die?” she demanded. Neither Valko nor Felicia had been present for the event, and could therefore not give testimony on what had occurred. Sansa claimed she didn’t remember, but Medea didn’t believe that for a moment. She was just a scared girl. It suddenly occurred to Medea that she had been the same age Sansa was now when she’d been wed to Clifford Swann.

“It had to be done,” Robert grumbled, but he would not look at her.

“Because Cersei insisted?” Medea’s voice was contemptuous. There was no denying that Cersei had a vicious streak. Where Robert had been willing to leave the matter alone, his wife had not. “You let your wife make the choice.”

Robert turned to glare at her. “Enough about the damned wolf.”

“No, it’s not enough.” She folded her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “You are the King. Seven hells.”

“I said enough!” Robert boomed. It was the same voice he had used when she and Renly had been children, the voice to scare them into submission. Stannis had been too old for that, just a year younger than Robert. Renly had always been cowed by Robert’s shouting, but little Medea had glared stubbornly back at her older brother, and she did so again now.

“Or what, Robert?”

“It’s done, there’s nothing we can do about it now.” Robert poured himself another goblet of wine. He did so enjoy turning to alcohol when things went beyond his control. Despite being King, he couldn’t handle everything – and Medea knew that it frustrated him when he couldn’t.

“All because of your stupid son and demanding wife,” Medea seethed. Usually she would show more tact when referring to Cersei and Joffrey, but she had had enough. Between Robert pushing for her to take another husband and Cersei’s casual cruelty, Medea was tired of holding her tongue. The Baratheons were known for their furious tempers, and she was no different.

Robert glowered. “Medea. Shut up.”

“Anything else, your Grace?” Medea’s voice was mocking, and she barely resisted the urge to dip a condescending curtsy. “No men you’ve decided would be a good match for me this time?”

“No,” Robert ground out through his teeth.

“Good. I am your sister, not a trinket to be given over to the highest bidder.” The anger faded away into something else, something Medea didn’t think she had felt for a long time. Robert was too much older than her for them to ever have been close, but she had always been his baby sister. “You cared about me once.”

“We aren’t children anymore.” The words were dismissive, and hurt Medea more than she would admit. She had not been a child since she was thirteen and given to a man to stabilise Robert’s rule. She had just been a girl, eager to please her eldest brother and new husband. Clifford had been good to her, cared for her. She doubted a second husband would be the same.

* * *

It had been a tense night with everything that had happened between Arya, Sansa and Joffrey. Alaric had been present for some of it, but had ignored most of the goings on. He wasn’t overly concerned with the politics, as it usually didn’t involve him. Although he had no doubt in his mind that Joffrey would’ve cried to his mother about their exchange earlier on in the day. Having grown bored of sitting around, he had decided to venture around the camp, not expecting to run into Sansa, but also not complaining about it, having grown to enjoy her company.

"Need anything?" Alaric asked as he sat down beside the young girl, noting that she had obviously been crying.

"I...I don't know." Sansa stuttered out, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.

Alaric watched her for a moment before putting an arm around her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her. Sansa paused for a moment before wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head as she sobbed into his shoulder, rubbing circles on her back.

"You should eat." Alaric reminded her gently, continuing to pat her back as she began to quieten down, rubbing her eyes again.

Sansa shook her head, pushing her hair out of her face. "I'm not hungry."

Alaric sighed heavily as he looked down at her. He knew she was stubborn, but he wasn’t in the mood for stubborn right now. "Sansa."

"Alaric." He could hear the challenge in her voice as she spoke back to him. Alaric pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping that it wouldn’t turn into an argument. When he didn’t respond, Sansa’s voice became bitter. "I hate Arya. If it wasn't for her, Lady would still be alive."

"She didn't kill your pet." Alaric tried to reason with her, though he doubted that it was going to make much difference with how she felt. "It was the Queen who wanted them dead."

Sansa scowled. "I hate her too."

"Don't say that too loudly." Alaric hushed her, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. Sansa may have been a child, but he didn’t doubt she’d be punished all the same. It was treasonous to speak of the Queen as such and whilst Alaric did not like Cersei either, his father and uncle had warned him to tread carefully in the capital. Sansa would have to learn to do the same.


End file.
